I’m not sure
whether it’s day or night
outside my window,
whether there are any
other people.
Words
dance
on the page: leap across each
other, pause
for a moment,
hesitate
the way someone may before
they raise their arm to spin her:
two people make a couple,
containing a moment
in a way this poem never may.
They must know their bodies,
the way they move
alone
and with each other.
I have
no sense
of self
no sense
of balance.
Only my words
balance
on a line
break-
ing into the next, waiting
for my soul to be at peace,
a different kind of balance
altogether. I’m not sure,
yet, whether I am
the man or woman
in this dance, whether
I am even present
in this moment.
Spinning skirts move
the air around me,
dizziness leads me
to an empty bed.
Profound loneliness
isn’t being by yourself,
it’s being around people
who don’t understand.
We are compelled
to pick only
one
who must get all of it,
and when they don’t,
we think we have
failed, fickle faith,
misunderstanding
the very nature
of what it means
to be one
with the many people
in the space
around us.
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